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"I want a glass of cognac," he proclaimed in a nasal voice from his nest of blankets.
"And I want to buy the Reval clothing factory," Rhoden parried succinctly, sitting down next to him. Before Rubinstein could object, Rhoden pulled the glove off his flesh hand and began carefully mopping Rubinstein's forehead with a damp cloth. It felt divine, and Rubinstein, somewhat mollified, fell silent.
The blankets were soft and a pleasant deep shade of pomegranate - Yulechka crocheted them last year from a neighbour's spare yarn, in exchange for several baskets of marzipan apples. Being wrapped in them would've be even nicer if he hadn't been sweating so profusely, but all in all Rubinstein was as comfortable as he could reasonably be while in bed with a raging cold.
And being cared after - well, it was a sheyn bisl extra. He was much more used to being the one to take care of others. And for the most part he enjoyed playing this part of a voyl zayde, but unlike his impossible best friend, he wasn't unselfish. The worry in Rhoden's gentle grey eyes, even as it pained Rubinstein to look at, was also shamefully gratifying.
"Thank you, yingele," he huffed, stroking his beard.
"Don't mention it." Rhoden leaned his elbow on his left knee and gave the blackberry tisane in Rubinstein's glass a swirl. "What are friends for? Mind you don't get any sicker, Leon. I should like to see you live another forty years at least."
"Age is no object," Rubinstein said, taking a sip. The tisane was excellent. He'd had his reservations about letting Rhoden plunder his precious stock of Põltsamaa blackberry jam, but in the end it was more than worth it. "I'll have you know, Arno, that I dig out three full sets of bovine remains in a single afternoon, shtup like a sewing machine, and run a mile in six minutes if chased by an officer of the Third Section."
Rhoden guffawed despite himself. "An impressive list of athletic accomplishments."
They sat in contented silence a few minutes. Finally, Rubinstein spoke again. "Don't you have anything to do other than watch an old man succumb to laryngitis?"
"Steinberg is looking after Fira." Rhoden shrugged with one shoulder. "I told them about the Reval Jõulud market and gave Fira three roubles. They'll be out until dusk."
The Steinbergs weren't boisterous kids and their presence would've hardly bothered Rubinstein even in his miserable state, but he treasured the consideration evident in the gesture.
"So you've bought me three roubles' worth of boredom," he rumbled good-naturedly, offering Rhoden a smile.
The ridiculous man actually had the gall to look guilty at that, as if he'd taken Rubinstein's accusation seriously.
"I can read to you, if you like," he offered sheepishly, and made to take a random book from the nearby walnut bookshelf.
"I was joking, Arne'le," Rubinstein said, and put a hand on Rhoden's cuff. "What I meant to say was, of course, a sheynem dank. But you know, I wouldn't say no to a spot of reading - if you don't mind terribly."
"Not at all." Rhoden scrutinised the brown leather-bound tome he was holding. "This is in Yiddish, though. I'm not sure I'm good enough to parse it yet-"
"Oh, but you could always try," Rubinstein interrupted with ill-concealed delight. "Practice your Yiddish! And, of course, give your poor sick friend some first-class entertainment."